Images From a Past Life
by beccie.lemare
Summary: Bella has been institutionalised and has lost most of her memories of her life. All that she is left with now are brief flashes of blurry images. In her catatonic state a new doctor arrives and radically changes her care plan. We will learn who this doctor is, why and when she was institutionalised and who put her there. Join me on this journey of discovery, revenge and love.


**All rights to Twilight belong to Stephanie Meyer. I do not own / am not profiting from using her story or characters.**

_Welcome to my first fic! I need a beta if anyone is interested. This is an AU fic and is based during New Moon after fuckward has left Bella in the woods. This is not for Edward or Jake lovers. _

My dreams are filled with images from a past life; a life that I can barely recall any more. I dream of steaming mugs of black coffee with a hint of sweetness. Of wandering through streets surrounded by cement monstrosities filled with rushing people much too eager to get to work. Of talking to people thousands of miles away via a tiny head-held device that seemed much too small to be capable of this miracle.

These dreams are all just blurred images though, as though looking at them through a distorted lens.

Have I died and been reincarnated and these are images ingrained into my too-aware subconscious? Was I in a horrific accident causing me to lose the majority of my memories which are only now appearing to me in this fragmented manner? No. If only that were the case, I believe that either of those realities would be far easier for my emotions to deal with.

Instead I am stuck with actual reality. The reality that I have to face every day for the rest of my existence, which, I am hoping, will end sooner rather than later.

I have been locked away. Not by some random kidnapper who wants a ridiculously large sum of money in return for my release, or by the police in response to some heinous crime that I committed. I have been locked away by members of my own family. People I trusted more than anything else in this world and whom I believed would never hurt or betray me in any way, shape or form.

Their reasons you ask? For my own safety, they would answer. For the safety of those who surround me. And their final response would be because they can no-longer cope with my irrational outbursts. Am I insane you ask? No, I am far from it. I consider myself to be perfectly rational and sane. I do not have hallucinations, I do not hear voices in my head that are not actually there and I do not have more than one personality. I have never tried to take my own life or the life of another being. So why have they locked me up?

The truth, in my opinion, is that they no longer wanted to face what they bought into being. Anything that I cannot remember of my history, I have been told by the people caring for me. It is not a happy story. It consists of violence, secrecy, lies and betrayal. It sounds like the making of a blockbuster movie. They believe that my mind has suppressed the majority of those memories in order to protect itself, that I could not cope with the reality of the situation if those memories resurfaced. Apparently I am better off not remembering. The fact that they then told me in basic terms what happened to me before being locked up baffles me slightly. Surely that is contradicting them-selves? But they are the professionals, right?

I no longer fight them in their decisions. At first, I fought them tooth and nail at every turn. If they wanted me to eat, I refused. If they wanted me to sleep I kept my eyes open until my body could no longer stay awake. If they wanted me to take the medication that they said would make me "better" I pushed it as far back in my mouth as I could without swallowing so that when they checked I had actually taken it they would believe I had, then, when they left me alone, I would gag it bag up. It was crude, but effective.

They soon learnt my tricks though, and they always had a way around them, no matter what I came up with to avoid doing what I was told. Apparently my unwillingness to co-operate was part of my "sickness".

So what would they call the all-encompassing numbness that surrounds me now? Is that part of my sickness too? Or is that just the fact that I am now so worn down that I have lost all will to fight, or even breathe. I no longer feel emotions. I no longer feel pain. I cannot even aware of passing minutes, hours, or days. My care-takers call it catatonia. I call it hell.

I barely feel as someone lifts my body off the rock they call a mattress, careful not to jostle the tubes that are providing me with the nutrition my body needs to keep functioning at a minimal level. I can hear someone talking, but it sounds muffled, as though they have put their hand over their mouth and are whispering in secret. But I know they are not. They are speaking at a normal level, I can no longer hear properly. Not that I care about what they are saying. It will make no difference to me in the long run.

"She needs a bed-bath and new hydrocolloid dressings for her pressure ulcers. Make sure she is turned every half hour and do not give me any excuses about being under-staffed or not having the time. Her care is now being funded privately so it is not as if the government or the hospital has to foot the bill. I am now taking over Isabella's care and I expect my orders to be followed to the letter and in a timely manner. I will not stand for the sub-standard care this girl has been getting. She came into this hospital lucid, well fed and with a fire in her. She is now catatonic, unable to care for herself and on the brink of starvation with no emotional output what-so-ever. That, in whatever circumstance, is unacceptable for a care institution. I am now taking over Isabella's care and I expect my orders to be followed to the letter and in a timely manner. I will not stand for the sub-standard care this girl has been getting. She came into this hospital lucid, reasonably well fed and with a fire in her. She is now catatonic, unable to care for herself and on the brink of starvation with no emotional output what-so-ever. That, in whatever circumstance, is unacceptable for a care institution."

I can tell that this is a new doctor. My previous doctor had been female for a start, where-as this doctor has the low, husky tone of a male. He is also angry and frustrated. But, just because I am capable of making these observations in the confines of my mind, does not mean that I care, or can even be bothered to try and care. I have had a number of different doctors since I was forcibly detained in this _institution_; in fact, I generally had a different doctor every day, sometimes even more than one a day. Each time a new one came in, they tried to ask me the same mundane questions, not bothering to read past the first paragraph of my notes. I have a habit of blacking out during these times and not remembering more than the first few questions.

I have been turned over so that I am no longer staring at the cracks in the faded yellow ceiling; I am now staring at the cracks in the faded yellow walls instead.

"What medication has she been on?"

"The patient has been receiving 5mg intravenously of Lorazepam daily for the last 8 months as stated on her notes."

"And has she shown any sign of improvement or change?" The doctor did not sound pleased.

Whilst listening to his voice, I noticed a change in the light. It was as though the sun was moving in and out of clouds every few seconds. It was a strange sensation considering I was staring at a wall. Or at least I was the last time I checked. I now seem to be facing a pair of well ironed black pants. When did that happen?

"No, Doctor, there has been no change, which, again, is stated in her notes, if you would just read them, you would be aware of this." The nurse's voice sounded sharp and squeaky, like nails raking down a chalkboard, but still muffled, as though under water.

"One last question, was she prescribed Lorazepam before or after she entered this catatonic state?"

"Um, before?" The nurse answered the question as though asking another question. I know that her answer is not going to please the new doctor, but I still could not bring myself to care. This numb state of being is hell, but I still can-not bring myself to want it to change. I am not even resigned to my fate of spending the rest of my existence in this manner, I just… am.

"I will respond to your ill-advised response to my questioning now. I can inform you that I have indeed read Isabella's notes. But I was so appalled by her lack of appropriate treatment and care that I chose to believe that they were mistaken. That there was no way someone in the medical profession who took an oath of care would see this as appropriate treatment. Unfortunately that seems to not be the case and it appears as though her notes are indeed correct and no-one has taken it upon them-selves to intervene to ensure she receives the best care possible. That truly does sadden me and I shall inform you now I will be taking this to the medical council who I can assure you will be investigating this establishment.

Now, we shall be changing Isabella's treatment. We will be reducing her intake of Lorazepam with a view to complete withdrawal from it. Reduce it by 1mg initially and we shall take it from there. Once I have seen how she reacts to that we may introduce electro-convulsive therapy as an alternate treatment but I will make my own diagnosis before I confirm that. Her response to the withdrawal of her medication may make that un-necessary. Once she begins to respond to stimuli again, which I am certain she will, I will then begin talking treatments with her to ascertain the extent of her psychosis and if indeed it is even necessary she is here in the first place. In the mean time I want her fluid intake doubled via the IV and I want her fed via the tube in her stomach more than twice a day, she is not getting anywhere near enough nutrients, up it to 6 times a day. Also, she will be receiving physical therapy 3 times a day to increase her muscle tone. Once she is up and about again that will be increased.

And don't forget her bed bath and change of dressings and to turn her every thirty minutes. I shall warn you now, If any of my orders are not followed Isabelle will be moved to a private care facility and this place will be shut down permanently, and anyone involved in her care will never again work, anywhere, in any job."

Hmm, he sounds serious.

The strange light movements in front of my eyes had stopped mid-way through the doctor's rant and I felt fleeting, butter-fly like touches on my limbs.

The sound of his voice died away, as did the light touch and I was left in silence. My mind starts floating away from reality, a familiar sensation.

"_Bella, you need to stop."_

"_Bella, they were not real."_

"_Figment of your imagination"_

"_Cullen's"_

"_Crazy"_

"_Locked up"_

"_Hold her"_

"_Jake"_

"_Charlie"_

"_I'm sorry"_

**Well I hope you enjoyed the first chapter and I apologise for any grammar/spelling errors, like I said, I am in need of a beta.**

**So who do you think the doctor is and what do you think has happened to put Bella in this position? And who put her there?**

**Reviews appreciated but please do not criticise the actual storyline as I am just playing with the characters. That's what fanfic is all about after all!**


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